Wops in The Wind

He's Back!

That Muggeridge of Mormon Monthly, Toad of the sceptic sores, mother of the free, the Verbal Pundit of our McLuhenesque, Galbraith, Mason ion times.

Yes, its Larrie Wops, after a 13-week vacation in the Grundip Isles, who comes regular as a purge to invest his inimitable socio-economicalities on you each week.

My God I'm sore.

I mean I'm sore about the way I'm invested with a title that even exceeds by capabilities to use you as a scurvy outlet.

And fifty thousand Polanski's Im on your side Mr Sir, Mistress Lady, Colombo Students, Freshers, and Appassionata Von Pox Humana.

"But Mr Wops," this lass stopped me on the zebra," your sensitivity exceeds even your capacity for rapaciousness."

Why can't a decent bloker, on an average day in his normal life invest in a bit of hokus pokery.

I was in the Tete the other night conversing and scribbing the life out of me (Roland Barthes says, "Writing on the contrary is rather rooted . . .") to keep up my deadly night shade (all prrof readers both living and dead take note) when this young girl sidled up to me with a sauce bottle.

"Leaning Rowles!" I mnemnonically muttered. It was a tiny trembling creature I had briefly swept by one hot Kings Cross evening.

"I've bin thrown out of my job," she sobbingly expostulated over the table. She was on the verge of tears. Five layers.

My arm was a bolster of Lvdiardian quiverment ("Plus c'est intelligent, plus c'est stpuide," Witold Gombrowisz).

"But listen love, here we have it. You know how I feel about the after birth of creation," I paused to see her rip off a false lash, remove a contact lens with a rather nasty look WC plunger.

"Us girls have a rep to keep up. We don't say Hey Nonnv! look who's here, the Chinese have invaded Jakarta, Morris West will cover the next Catholic Parapdegics. Margaret Rutherford's "3000 tricks with a straight banana" has been seized by the Guadacanal authorities whereas dear little−"

It was the final end I insured her. They had Meter Maids even in the North now, Bowser Attendants were being consulted for Te Whepaepae, and over fifty percent of young misfit ministers were getting their troubled poems performed with Alpert accompanists in Hastings Blossom Festival.

I felt this young girl with a prayer, a tingling scapuPop, and a dozen Roxy lar, a bottle of Lourdes Soda Balcony Free Passes.

You see, you can be saved when you are "a scallywog" as Winston Mac. once told me, and to quote the Quixotic nimbleness of F. Rabelais:

You don't pass ten poor if you break them with turdlets in a year and even your fingers the Authorities wil clamber with a squeegee and their hearts a triboldis Solofruitandieri be it lion or monkey wrench the wench will scream o' just the same. Hey Noddy etc. . .

I assure you, sleeves rolled past the tendom of the Sum/Ski cream, that I know when the poor are poor, when a democracy is only a median in a holus bolus of tangents, when the life blood of martyrs who leave assorted bodily wastes to progress are sick sick people.

Then, and only then am I able to comprehend this dour society's crawl with an uptake and avenge it, with all the powers of a politician, a pundit (Did Walt Disney live in a Plutocracy?) and above all an honest peasant with a song in his heart and a lash more severe than a horse's nightmare.

Ladies and Dogends, J resign from my office. Pax Vobis.

• Nest Week O'Leary Leaden on Te Deum is the Massage—a post-rhythmical treatise on movies and morons.